The sound of the camera shutter clicked, freezing the moment. The photographer tilted his head and asked, "Want another one?"
Qinghui replied, "Sure." But the fourth brother took off his hat and said, "No more. I'm leaving." With that, he strode out of the camera's frame, quickly lit a cigarette, and took several deep drags. Suddenly sensing someone behind him, he turned to see Sheng Qingrang.
Flicking the ash from his cigarette, the fourth brother squinted through the smoke and said, "You really never give up on this family, do you? No wonder Dad kept wanting to see you before he passed. Seems he knew you were the one with the most conscience."
When Sheng Qingrang's father died, he was in Paris.
Separated by thousands of miles, the news arrived late. By the time Sheng Qingrang received the letter, his father had already been gone for months.
In that letter—the only and last one his father ever wrote to him—it said: "I made two mistakes in my life. First, I wronged your mother. Second, I wronged you. Neither can be undone now. If you’re willing, come home. If not, I’ve asked a friend in France to look after you."
It was the first time Sheng Qingrang had ever received a letter from his father, and the first time he’d heard such words from him.
Later, after completing his studies, he hesitated about whether to stay in Paris. But the words "come home" lingered in his heart, and so he eventually returned to Shanghai.
"If he’d known how capable you’d become, he wouldn’t have sent you to Uncle’s house back then," the fourth brother said, taking another drag before sighing. "Before he died, he even wrote to call you back from Paris. Too bad no one in this family wanted you around at the time—they didn’t even include you in the family photo." He glanced back at the others still posing for pictures and asked Sheng Qingrang, "Now they put you in the center of the photo. After everything you’ve done to earn their approval, do you think it was worth it?"
Sheng Qingrang thought of those earlier years. He expected to feel a surge of emotions, but in truth, his heart remained unmoved.
All he sought was a clear conscience. "Being understood and recognized is naturally good," he said. "But I did these things because I wanted to, not to seek understanding or approval. So it’s not a matter of worth."
As they spoke, the eldest sister-in-law approached.
The fourth brother held some respect for her. Having been too eager to take photos earlier, he hadn’t greeted her. Now, he turned and called out, "Sister-in-law."
She looked up at him and said, "We’re glad you’ve returned safely."
But he replied, "I’m leaving soon, and I might never come back. Just pretend I don’t exist, like before."
She knew he disliked this family and that he was stubbornly proud. Yet seeing his injuries and knowing he’d soon return to the front lines, she couldn’t help but worry.
Gazing at him, she said, "A country must stand before a family can thrive. Though you’ve left this home, you’re guarding Shanghai, guarding our land—and in doing so, you’re guarding our family. I’ll pass on your eldest brother’s words to you: he wants you to live well, to survive until the enemy is driven from our borders. When that day comes, return home, and we’ll prepare the finest wine for you."
The cigarette in the fourth brother’s hand was nearly spent. Outside, the military jeep blared its horn like a bugle, urging him to leave.
His brow furrowed deeply, his dry lips—tainted with the bitter taste of cheap tobacco—pressed tightly together. Emotions tangled within him, his eyes stinging and swelling.
Crushing the cigarette butt between his fingers and pulling his cap low, he turned silently and strode toward the door. Just before boarding the jeep, he suddenly spun around and shouted back inside, "I’m off! Take care on your journey, and we’ll meet again someday!"The car started, and Qinghui immediately ran after it. By the time she reached the gate, panting heavily, the military-green jeep had already sped to the end of the road, disappearing around the corner in an instant, leaving behind only swirling dust and fluttering fallen leaves by the roadside.
Autumn had truly arrived in Shanghai.
Since ancient times, autumn has evoked melancholy, and parting only deepened the sorrow.
Zong Ying stayed with Qinghui and the children at the mansion for another night. On the day the Sheng family was to leave Shanghai, she was woken early by Qinghui.
Qinghui had tossed and turned all night, rising before dawn to pack their belongings—the journey ahead was long, and it was impractical to carry too much. Choices had to be made, yet leaving things behind meant they might never see them again.
In the end, including the children's things, they managed to fill two large trunks and a small hand-carried suitcase.
Most of the household staff had been paid and dismissed, leaving only Uncle Yao to watch over the mansion.
Before their departure, Uncle Yao, tears in his eyes, called for cars, helped with the luggage, and finally saw them off at the door, saying, "Third Young Master called. He's already waiting at the pier."
The group boarded the cars one by one, the doors closed, and the engines started as they slowly drove away from the Sheng family mansion on Jing'an Temple Road.
Qinghui lifted the curtain and looked back through the window, watching as Uncle Yao, tears streaming down his face, closed the iron gate and locked it.
Inside the car, the children, though unaware of what lay ahead, felt an inexplicable fear overshadowing their curiosity about their destination as they prepared to leave the city they knew so well.
A Lai clung tightly to her younger brother A Jiu, the eldest sister-in-law's children huddled together distractedly flipping through a book, and the second sister's child, A Hui, gripped his father's clothes without a word—haunted by the thought that his innocent wish for cake had cost his mother her life, he was terrified that speaking again might make him lose his father too.
At the pier, Zong Ying finally saw Sheng Qingrang.
She asked where he had slept the night before, and he replied, "At the apartment. But for some reason, I couldn't sleep at all. How about you?"
Zong Ying said, "I slept well."
With pressing matters at hand, this brief exchange was all they could manage.
It was past noon, the autumn sun high in the sky.
Due to the scarcity of tickets, the pier was chaotic. Soldiers controlled the area while police fired shots to maintain order, but in wartime, when gunfire was a daily occurrence, such measures had limited effect.
After a long wait, the boarding time finally arrived, and another surge of people crowded forward.
Qinghui and the children stood at the back of the line. She carried A Jiu in her arms while Zong Ying held the wicker suitcase for her.
The eldest sister-in-law ahead reminded Qinghui, "Stay close, watch the children. We're about to board."
The crowd surged, shoulder to shoulder, all moving in the same direction. As they drew nearer to the ship, Qinghui truly realized—they were leaving.
Her school was here, her classmates were here, her friends were here. Everything she had known since childhood was here. She only knew Shanghai.
From the moment she was born, all her memories had Shanghai as their backdrop.
The song sang of "ten miles of foreign concessions, such splendid scenery, riding in cars, living in mansions, a paradise beyond Suzhou." But now, Shanghai was no longer a paradise.
She turned to look at Zong Ying, her eyes filled with reluctance—for Zong Ying, and for Shanghai.
A Jiu slept peacefully in her arms, A Lai stayed close by her side. As they were about to board, Zong Ying handed the wicker suitcase to her.She sighed and spoke with emotion, "Miss Zong, I never thought I would leave Shanghai one day. But now, I truly have to go."
Her voice carried both resignation and deep nostalgia.
Zong Ying didn’t know how to comfort her, but Qinghui had already turned to the child beside her and instructed, "A Lai, take out the ticket and remember to stay close to me."
With that, she turned to board the ship after showing her ticket. At the last moment, she stood on tiptoe and glanced back at Zong Ying, calling out over the heads of seven or eight people, "Take care, you and Third Brother!"
Zong Ying felt someone brush past her as the crowd surged forward, pushing her along. But she had no connection to this departing ship or to this era. She could only walk against the tide of people, retreating.
Suddenly, a hand reached out—dry and warm—grasping her cold fingers, the pad of a thumb pressing against her knuckles.
Zong Ying only saw his back.
Sheng Qingrang led her a long way, distancing them from the bustling docks. When he turned to gaze into the distance, the departing ship was still visible, and Shanghai’s low skyline stretched before them.
At that moment, a poem from his middle school Chinese textbook came to mind—one by Du Fu. In it, the poet wrote:
"Tomorrow, mountains will stand between us,
And the affairs of this world will be vast and uncertain."
In this chaotic era of separation, people scattered in all directions, unsure when they might meet again.
With all his family gone, the vast city of Shanghai seemed to hold only himself.
On their way back, they passed by the Sheng residence on Jing’an Road, now reduced to a pair of tightly shut iron gates and a few towering plane trees in the courtyard—their broad leaves nearly all fallen, their sharp branches piercing a crimson sunset.
By the time they returned to Apartment 699, evening had fallen. A single candle burned silently in the service office, signaling yet another power outage.
Upstairs, they found the gas supply cut off, and not a drop of water came from the metal faucet.
Amidst the war, the collapse of public utilities laid bare the shortcomings of city apartments.
By the faint remnants of twilight, Zong Ying rummaged through the cabinets and found only a bottle of red wine and two cans of food.
After a moment’s hesitation, she carried the wine and cans to the balcony, setting them on the small table. Just as she turned to fetch a corkscrew, Sheng Qingrang handed one to her.
Along with it came a candle and a matchbox.
Zong Ying opened the matchbox—only one match remained.
As darkness fully descended, she struck the match with a hiss , carefully lighting the candle wick. The flame burned quietly in the night, flickering occasionally in the breeze.
Meanwhile, Sheng Qingrang uncorked the wine and poured her half a glass.
Two wicker chairs stood side by side, overlooking half of Shanghai. The blacked-out city sank into silent darkness, the clamor and crowding of the day, the gunshots and wails, now seeming like a dream.
Zong Ying took a sip of wine and, after a long silence, said, "My mother’s case, and the 723 tunnel incident—there might already be a verdict."
Sheng Qingrang replied, "I ran into Miss Xue the day before yesterday. She mentioned it and asked about you—I told her the truth. Last night, a lawyer also came looking for you. He called my phone to ask about the will. I asked him to contact you directly."
Having been away from that era for days, Zong Ying would finally return tonight to face all the disputes awaiting her.
She finished the last of her wine. From downstairs came the sound of a gong, but peering down, she saw only darkness—no sign of anyone.
"Will the power and water be out for long?" she suddenly asked.“Never happened before, not sure this time,” Sheng Qingrang said. “But if it’s still like this by eight tomorrow morning, I won’t have the chance to find out when the utilities return.”
“You mean—”
“I received an urgent notice yesterday. At eight tomorrow morning, I have to leave Shanghai for some matters.”
Zong Ying was taken aback and looked at Sheng Qingrang. “How long will you be gone?”
“Maybe ten days, or longer,” he replied, his tone uncertain, as if he were heading into peril. After a pause, he met her gaze and added, “We might not see each other for a long time. Perhaps by the time your surgery is over, I’ll be back.”
As he spoke, Zong Ying kept her eyes on him.
Under the candlelight, she noticed for the first time the streaks of white in his hair.
A pang of sorrow struck her. She averted her gaze, set down the empty wine glass, and reached into her pocket for a cigarette case.
She had resolved to quit after finishing this pack. Now, the crumpled blue case held only one cigarette.
Unlike the pitch-black Black Devils she usually smoked, this one was almost entirely white, save for a dove of peace printed above the blue dividing line.
Zong Ying leaned toward the candle, using the flickering flame to light her last cigarette.
The tobacco burned swiftly in the air, its scent laced with plum and cream. She unfolded the empty case—its front also bore the image of a dove, clutching a three-leaf olive branch in its beak, flanked by two words.
Unconsciously, she read the word on the right: “Peace.”
Sheng Qingrang followed with the one on the left: “Infinity.”
A distant cannon roared from the Suzhou River, and the wind picked up.
The autumn night was biting, mercilessly snuffing out the white candle on the table. In the darkness, only the ember of the cigarette glowed—until even that burned out.
“Peace,” “Infinity.”
What wonderful words they were.
Had it not been for this war, why would an entire city live in fear? Why would thousands be displaced? And why would a man in his prime find his hair streaked with white in just a few months?
In the obscurity of night, faces were indistinct, but breaths were familiar.
They turned toward each other simultaneously, their exhales mingling, lips brushing lightly like a dragonfly skimming water. As he instinctively pulled back, Zong Ying’s fingers, still carrying the scent of tobacco, reached out and gently cupped his cheek.
Strands of hair, tousled by the night breeze, brushed against each other’s faces. Zong Ying parted her lips slightly, sharing the lingering taste of plum and cream, infused with wine.
One would soon return to the modern era to face truth and surgery; the other would embark on an uncertain journey with no return date in sight. On that open balcony, beneath the night sky of October 6, 1937—
They resumed the kiss they had once missed.
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